Sharpe's Havoc: Richard Sharpe and the Campaign in Northern Portugal, Spring 1809 by Bernard Cornwell

Author:Bernard Cornwell
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Richard (Fictitious character), Historical, Portugal, 1800-1815, General, Napoleonic Wars, Historical fiction, Sharpe, Thrillers, Soldiers, Fiction
ISBN: 9780007120123
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2004-03-01T07:20:03+00:00

CHAPTER 7

it was just before midday when a French soldier climbed the hill carrying a white flag of truce tied to the muzzle of his musket. Two officers accompanied him, one in French infantry blue and the other, Colonel Christopher, in his red British uniform jacket with its black facings and cuffs.

Sharpe and Vicente went to meet the two officers who had advanced a dozen paces ahead of the glum-looking man with the white flag and Vicente was forcibly struck by the resemblance between Sharpe and the French infantry officer, who was a tall, black-haired man with a scar on his right cheek and a bruise across the bridge of his nose. His ragged blue uniform bore the green-fringed epaulettes that showed he was a light infantryman and his flared shako was fronted with a white metal plate stamped with the French eagle and the number 31. The badge was surmounted by a plume of red and white feathers which looked new and fresh compared to the Frenchman’s stained and threadbare uniform.

“We’ll kill the Frog first,” Sharpe said to Vicente, “because he’s the dangerous bugger, and then we’ll fillet Christopher slowly.”

“Sharpe!” the lawyer in Vicente was shocked. “They’re under a flag of truce!”

They stopped a few paces from Colonel Christopher, who took a toothpick from his lips and chucked it away. “How are you, Sharpe?” he asked genially, then held up a hand to stay any answer. “Give me a moment, will you?” the Colonel said and one-handedly clicked open a tinderbox, struck a light and drew on a cigar. When it was burning satisfactorily he closed the tinderbox’s lid on the small flames and smiled. “Fellow with me is called Major Dulong. He don’t speak a word of English, but he wanted to have a look at you.”

Sharpe looked at Dulong, recognized him as the officer who had led so bravely up the hill, and then felt sorry that a good man had climbed back up the hill alongside a traitor. A traitor and a thief. “Where’s my telescope?” he demanded of Christopher.

“Back down the hill,” Christopher said carelessly. “You can have it later.” He drew on the cigar and looked at the French bodies among the rocks. “Brigadier Vuillard has been a mite over eager, wouldn’t you say? Cigar?”

“Please yourself.” The Colonel sucked deep. “You’ve done well, Sharpe, proud of you. The 31st Leger”-he jerked his head toward Dulong-”ain’t used to losing. You showed the damn Frogs how an Englishman fights, eh?”

“And how Irishmen fight,” Sharpe said, “and Scots, Welsh and Portuguese.”

“Decent of you to remember the uglier breeds,” Christopher said, “but it’s over now, Sharpe, all over. Time to pack up and go. Frogs are offering you honors of war and all that. March out with your guns shouldered, your colors flying and let bygones be bygones. They ain’t happy, Sharpe, but I persuaded them.”

Sharpe looked at Dulong again and he wondered if there was a look of warning in the Frenchman’s eyes. Dulong had said nothing,

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